Their hot veins as they commingle, Baring their charms, 'neath alien roses Ministering such sweets as Hell composes. Hence, therefore, Cupid! Venus, hence! I yield not to your violence: I've said it, nor shall you allure My heart to own your sway impure. Another Cypris holds me now, Another Love receives my vow: For Love is here and Mother kind, But she a Virgin; He not blind. O Child! O Lord! great Mother blest! O wonder of thy holy breast! O Love, whose quiver's sacred pow'rs Ne'er send forth arrow that devours, Unless a shaft pierce the pure heart, That Thou mayst heal the blessèd smart. Me whom Thou piercest, holy Child, Pierce, pierce me sure with arrows mild. Let Thy quiver grow more light As Thou dost me yearning smite: What my soul pants for, and still drinks And drinks, and thirsts, and never thinks To get enough, O give, still give. Thus would I die; thus would I live. Transfix this heart, Child: howsoe'er Thou comest,--crown'd with thorns and bare, Or great with the awful heraldry Of nail and spear for Faith to see; Or greater still, on the holy rood Wet with the terror of Thy Blood; Or great'st of all, Thyself alone In meek might of Thy Passion,-- Still pierce this heart; O pierce it, Child: _Thus_ would I drink in rapture wild. O that Thy bow might wound me still! O that of wounds I had my fill! Or, if some swifter wing there be, That it would fly to me--to me! Behold, my Saviour, this poor breast, And take it as Thine arrows' nest: I seek not to be spar'd one blow: Thus would I have Thee still my foe; Still yearn that wounded I may be; For wounds like these are ecstasy. These are my wishes: and my Books, May they be his who on them looks! Seek'st, Reader, to be mine? Then, last, I ask thy eyes that they be chaste; Chaste, but not tearless; my dear Love To meet and know, as from above He comes, and still the Crucified, Proclaiming how for man He died By thorn, and nail, and spear, and cry, And bitterest words of agony: Say, should He meet thee thus in blood, Couldst thou e'en grudge of tears a flood? Ah, hard thy heart as e'er was stone, That all unmov'd can hear Him groan, Nor by a throb of feeling show Thou hast a sense of His great woe; While here He treasured human tears Hushing sad Mary in her fears, As to His feet in shame she crept, And with white drops them all bewept: More than Assyrian gold to thee Such tears, if thou their worth couldst see. His love with thine again will glow, His tears afresh with thine will flow. Here, Reader, glancing through my Book, Thou shalt upon His cradle look: To His sweet obsequies now turn, And mark how still my love shall burn. Here, with His Mother and with me, My ceaseless sacred joys shalt see: